LS6 2 violence crew, woodhouse not Hyde Park, you won’t find the cool kids here, stay home after dark. Dismembered bodies in the wood, on the Ridge it’s no good. No one takes the fucking bins, back streets full of shit and tins, kids throw fireworks in the hood, streets awash with student's blood. Jacktar's shop, stinks of dog, but the booze is cheap. Scabby mongrels start to bark, scally bastards on the park, walking by you'll hear the blast, TAG and Warboys playing fast. If you come you won't go back, cunts will stab you in the back. In the fucking back.

Brand new records through the door, precious vinyl hits the floor, always bringing more and more, cos there's no local record stores. Needle on - turned up loud, blasting intro - classic sound, nice sleeve art - but wait what's this ? Awful lyrics of drivelling piss. Same old story, the standard can't, hardcore clichés and an angry rant, it’s so vague - you're talking shit, forget the words and just cut to the quick. Inarticulate with the pen, just think it through and start again.

Too much booze, it sank your mind, now you're weak they pick their time. Submit to the higher power. Fuck the 12-step plan. Fuck their plan, i need more, rotgut booze, on the floor, fuck the 12-step plan. Fuck off.

No trying to talk to you. Brown bread, it will never get through. Total waste of space, complete fucking disgrace. Savour the failure.
Laughing at you, every single day, following rules. Fuck that, eat your bread. We'll just take what we want.

Beer for life, beer for life. Life's great comfort. Beer for life, beer for life. Chimay, Rochefort. Beer for life, beer for life. Seek the best ales, get your own, quaff them all, beer for life. Quaff. Beer for life, beer for life. Oatmeal porter or cider, drink ‘til you fall down on the fucking floor.

“Lend us 20p”. But what could it be for? Tea? Bus? Booze? Drugs? “Fair play – there you go…”
I’m not one to begrudge the simple things, soon we’ll all be on the scrounge. No money, can’t eat, can’t sleep. Scratch around, on the ground, for a pound. And they say, there’s enough, to go round?

All day searching the ground, rich bounty awaits. Docker picker, pull the baccy out of the back, turn it round, twist off the black.
You're a docker-picker, you're a monkey-needer,
Keep your eyes on the floor. Baccy scrounger, you fucking docker-picker, monkey-needer, pass that monkey over here.

Walking round in the town, sniffing glue or smoking brown, belly out, vest tucked in, all day long you'll wear a grin, just stay away from bleach and Vim, fall asleep beside the bins, wake up feeling damp. White string vest man, only you can drink so much, out drink the rest 'til death. Spare any change?